Nowhere To Be Found
by CitronPresse
Summary: Pre-series one shot. Mark finds Addison in an on-call room. Addison's POV. Pairing: Mark/Addison.


A/N: This was written for greys exchange on livejournal. Many thanks to Karevsanatomy for beta-ing. Reviews are very much appreciated.

As far as genre goes, this does, as stated, involve friendship and to some extent romance; there's also slight angst and some mild sexual scenes. The categories on offer don't cover all that, though!

* * *

She doesn't know where Derek is. Well, why should she? She almost never knows where he is, unless wherever-Addison's-not can be counted as a place, because that's pretty much the only place he _can_ be found recently.

Now she slumps down on the narrow, uncomfortable bed of the on-call room. Yes, slumps. Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd M.D. was never a slumper. And yet now she finds herself slumping frequently. Her marriage slumps, her heart slumps, so she follows suit and slumps too.

It was a long surgery. Long and difficult and ultimately soul-destroying because the sickened, premature baby, the baby who should have been starting life right now as a little girl, died in her OR. She should be used to it, but she never is, it always takes some recovery time, some assimilation. Derek always used to help her cope. He did it beautifully and she gladly returned the support when needed. But now he's nowhere to be found and all she's got is her own devices, and they're just not enough.

And, yes, she's feeling sorry for herself. But it's all built up until she can't stand it. So she slumps in the dingy on-call room, by herself, until slumping gives way to crumpling and she breaks down and sobs.

So lost is she in the melting down of her self-control, she doesn't hear the soft opening and closing of the door or see Mark standing in front of her, and the senses that first alert her to the fact she's not alone are smell and touch.

She smells the aroma of coffee being held under her nose. Extra strong, rich roast, lots of cream. Because he knows how she likes it and he always remembers.

What she touches, what touches her, is less obvious. There's no physical contact and it's hard to explain. But he fills the space between them with warmth; warmth that radiates from his body and permeates her skin and her defenses.

She looks up at him with wet, blue eyes and he smiles and hands her the Styrofoam cup of coffee, carefully making sure she's holding the corrugated paper cover and not the hot part of the cup.

He shrugs. "I heard," he says. "I thought you might like some coffee."

For a second, she resents him. He's a stand-in for the husband that he most definitely sees more of than she does. But there's something about him. Something purely comforting. Because for all his casual hook-ups and smutty humor, he is possibly the kindest, most attentive man she knows. He always seems to know when she needs someone and he's always willing to play second best to his best friend and be there for her. He makes her feel cared for at times when, without his teasing friendship, she might otherwise just feel crushed.

"Derek?" she asks.

"Surgery," he replies.

It's a routine exchange. They have it down pat. They should add some jokes and turn it into a double act.

"I just wanted to check you were doing okay," he adds.

Addison nods. "I will be," she says and then smiles. "Thank you for the coffee."

He winks at her. He's about to leave. But then he turns half way back and smiles at her in a soft, slightly troubled way that, now she thinks about it, she's only ever seen him direct at her.

She smiles back and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

He hesitates and glances furtively at the floor.

Secretly she's always considered him a little cute when he's awkward. And again it occurs to her that, as far as she knows, he's only ever quite this awkward around her.

"You want me to stay with you for a little while?" He shrugs. "I'm done with surgeries for the day."

"Yes," she blurts. It comes out involuntarily. She had intended to say, "No, no, I'm fine," but her instincts wouldn't let her. She wants him to stay. She wants him to sit down next to her on the bed. She doesn't want intangible warmth any more; she wants the real thing. She wants him to be close to her. She wants to touch him and to have him touch her. Oh, God . . . she wants him!

"If you don't mind," she adds in a low, throaty voice that the rational part of her thinks sounds like some pastiche of a sexy woman. And as she says this, she peeps coquettishly through a lock of unruly red hair that has come unclipped and fallen over her eyes.

_Seriously, Addison!_ She thinks. _What the hell are you playing at?_ And she's about to give up and laugh at herself, but before she can, he reaches out. He reaches out one beautiful, strong, long-fingered hand—she never noticed any of this before, but now his hand captivates her— and he catches hold of the straying hair and tucks it behind her ear.

His hand lingers against her face for an extra second, a little pause, but the pause is all she needs. His touch is like fire against her soft cheek. Fire that burns deliciously and spreads down her neck and ignites her senses. Unable to stop herself, she raises her own hand and places it over his.

Scared, aroused azure meets intense, molten slate, as their blue eyes fleetingly lock in a final hiatus of indecision. Then touch takes over from sight, as all hesitancy is swept away.

Mark pushes her down on the bed. He's not rough, he's almost gentle. But his gentleness has a suspicion of roughness, a power that makes her catch her breath. His mouth crushes hers with ferocious hunger and her senses burst open as she tastes him for the first time. She can't get enough. Her tongue spars with his, desperate to explore every inch, every contour of his mouth; desperate for depth and contact; desperate for more and more of the breathtaking pressure of his lips.

His scent surrounds and suffuses her and drives her wild with sudden, unexpected longing. He drags his hands through her long, silky hair, pulling back her head a little and exposing her neck. She gasps hoarsely as his teeth graze her delicate skin, and his facial hair chafes her, and his rapid, intimate breaths pulse warmly in her ear.

Then his hand is inside her scrubs and between her legs, and the sweet friction of his thumb tantalizes her through the thin fabric of her silk panties. Her body has an instinct for him, a naturalness, that before today she never knew existed. She thrills and shudders at his touch as the anticipation of something she never expected or wanted before cascades through her, making her wet and ready and, for this moment, absolutely his.

His muscular body, his hand against her, his hardness pressing into her hip all make her cry out. Because if she thought she wanted him minutes ago, it was nothing compared to how much she wants him now.

She wants to feel him enter her. She wants to feel him stretching her, filling her, driving into her. She wants . . . him. All of him. Now.

"Mark," she breathes. "Please Mark. I want—"

The jarring sound of her pager cuts through their passion. They both know without checking who it is. And guilt vies with disappointment for the upper hand in their sense of absolute loss, as Mark rolls off her with a deep, guttural grunt.

Addison checks her pager. "Derek," she says very quietly and Mark nods, without looking at her.

She lightly ruffles his hair, she can't help herself, and she sees, for the first time, the flecked beginnings of gray.

He sighs irritably and seems about to push her away. But, impulsively, he changes his mind and pulls her hand to his lips and presses it with a last kiss.

"Too bad, Addie," he says softly.

It _is_ too bad. Part of her is still enmeshed in senses and instinct and all this part wants to do is push him back down on the bed and taste his wonderful taste again, and smell him and touch him and feel his hardness inside her. But the sound of the pager has caught the attention of her brain and her conscience and she stuffs all her feelings back down inside.

"Saved by the beep!" she quips lamely. And he rounds on her, for a split second, with angry, hurt eyes, before he realizes what she's doing.

They can't have this experience; they can't have these feelings. He helped her cope when she needed it, that's all. And now they need to cope with this.

"Okay, Add."

He stands up heavily and adjusts his dark blue scrub pants around his still half present erection and turns to go. But as he reaches the door, he turns back to her.

She holds her breath, because this was how it all started, him turning back.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then evidently thinks better of it. She knows what he feels for her; she could sense it in every movement and breath and touch of his tongue and hands and body. But he _can't_ feel it. She's Derek's wife and he's Derek's best friend. So she's grateful when he thinks better of whatever longing words he was about to say, and turns back into Mark Sloan, laid-back manwhore, and smirks at her.

"Glad I could be of assistance," he says. But that's it and then he's out the door.

Addison lets out a breath that's half relief and half desolation. The page let her know that Derek is out of surgery and looking for her. So now she knows where he is. But he, on the other hand, doesn't know where _she_ is and, just for the moment, she's content to let it stay that way.


End file.
